He called me again. I didn’t want to answer, and I had refused his call for weeks now, afraid of being the bitch on the phone that he didn’t know in person. I had always been nice, all sugar and spice and didn’t know how to speak without screaming. You see, he was just another boy, another womanly show, who had called me dear and grabbed my arm for the very last time. And so I broke. Something inside me, the part that cares about respect and is willing to deflect anger toward productive activities like getting degree. The part inside where my pride was located began to melt and I soon felt this was not only getting out of hand but also going for the first time in the direction I had always wanted. A direction I had never said. I fled from my training, my culture failing until I realized it was never my culture to adopt, never my love of self where beauty was caught, but a dream, a film, a flick, some dick tried to sell me all the while telling me I was a beautiful twit. So when that thing inside me broke, shattered, smashed, crashed, imploded, cracked, impaled, and whaked, it was me who stepped out unscratched. But it was not the beautiful me. It was the powerful, it was the adventurous, it was the independent, it was the who doesn’t give a damn about religion or the impact on the children or the respect for tradition cause if I care about everyone around me I am the invisible I seek to reveal. I cried for the beautiful. Buried her well and marked a grave for the good work she did to bring me to today. But she is no longer the only way.